Make It Better
by P-3a
Summary: Made good on a promise to cheer everybody up after a particularly heartbreaking piece of character death fanart. [Originally published October 2013.]


Varian Wrynn wasn't sure how many days it had been since his son had died.

Well. His son hadn't died. So the medics claimed, anyway. He just wasn't moving. Or breathing, much. Apparently, his heartbeat was still strong, but Varian couldn't see that. His clumsy fingers, shaking, hadn't been able to find a pulse on his son's clammy neck, his tiny bruised wrist. But the medics told him, insisted to him, that it was there. So there was that.

He still had work to do. Well. He was told he still had work to do. And he tried to do it, too. He was a King. He couldn't just give that up because his son was dead.

On the first day, he'd signed most papers put in front of him in a daze, only to imagine Anduin's voice berating him for signing things which could change people's lives forever, Father, for better or worse without a second thought. He'd had to retreat to his chambers for the rest of the day to be alone, after that.

On the second day, he'd tried to visit the infirmary. He balked at the door and fled, then spent the rest of the day pacing the corridor outside, hoping the doors would open and Anduin would step out on his crutches like before. That didn't happen. He couldn't stand to look at Anduin's face, Anduin's handsome young face with the jawline strengthening by the day and that horrid purple bruise across the cheek and the typical Wrynn nose that had made his mother laugh with how uncanny it was and that awful black eye that wouldn't go away. He couldn't even bear to ask about the rest of him. He'd covered it up with his cloak as soon as he had and not looked again.

The third day had been lost to him as a whirlwind of demanded requests and requested demands from what felt like every noble in the damn city, and so had all the subsequent days. There was something about… a poison, a neurotoxin. They'd rambled for hours to him, at him, about him regarding his son's projected survival chances. At first, it hadn't looked good. Allegedly, it looked better, now, but Varian hadn't heard substantial news in a few days. Perhaps they were just trying to save him the trouble of knowing.

But then - "Father," he heard, at the edge of his perception. It's a voice he'd heard - or thought he'd heard - a thousand times since then. But this time… this time it had little cracks at the edge, sore shakes that Varian couldn't have fabricated, wouldn't have fabricated, not for his son. His eyes shot up, focussed.

He was still wearing simple clothes. Seems the wound in his stomach still needed to be accessed at a moment's notice. And he still wasn't standing up, either - he was seated in a wheeled chair of some kind, arms resting in his lap, attendant at his back. He looked exhausted. But he was smiling, and he was… alive.

For a moment, Varian didn't care if it was a dream. He had to fight the urge to scoop Anduin up and hug him harder than he'd ever - his positioning clearly meant he still wasn't safe to move much, even though he'd recovered enough to - why were they letting him out?

"Why are they letting you out? Are you— safe?"  
The Prince fought down a laugh. "No, but I threatened to sneak out on my own if they didn't bring me to see you."

Varian knelt before his son instead, offering him a hand which Anduin gently lay one of his into. His cold, pallid skin against Varian's ruddier tone almost broke the king's heart all over again. But he squeezed it gently and held it to his cheek like he was afraid Anduin would pass away before him, otherwise, then lay it gently back in the boy's lap.

"Who was it that did this, then?"  
Anduin didn't miss the growl in his father's tone, and sounded worried, when he spoke again. "I don't know, Father. It was an assassin, I—"  
"Was it that dragon?! I'll wear his hide as a belt!"  
"Father! It wasn't Wrathion," the younger Wrynn insists. "Stop jumping to conclusions all the time. Please."

Varian scowled. "How do you know it wasn't him?"  
Anduin seemed to have trouble formulating a response, for a moment. "Because he — I mean, I think… I think he likes me, Father."  
Varian's expression passed through unimpressed, to realisation, to realisation and then through to a warning growl. "Don't you even think for a second that he's your friend, son. Let alone more. His kind aren't capable of such emot—"  
"He is," said Anduin in an even tone, "he's been cleansed. I would be able to tell, if he hadn't. I spent longer at Onyxia's side than you did, you know."

Varian dropped the topic, for now. He'd bring it up again when his son wasn't… well. Indisposed. "You'd better head back to the infirmary," he said reluctantly. "Your nurse is looking a little twitchy."  
Anduin, ever sensible, didn't try to twist to look at her. But he did grin. "Alright. I'll try and stay awake until you've finished your paperwork to come see me."

The King stood up, shoulders proud once again for the first time in however many days, and mustered a smile. Suddenly, he was exhausted, and didn't want to do any more paperwork; but he knew he needed to. "Alright."

"And bring a book," insisted Anduin as he was wheeled away. "Or three!"

Varian tried to make a comment, tried to muster some quip about his son's scholarly pursuits, but he couldn't. All he could do to keep from weeping was to cover his face with his hand and laugh.


End file.
